


Click, Snap

by thepurplewombat



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-12
Updated: 2017-02-12
Packaged: 2018-09-23 18:07:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9670130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepurplewombat/pseuds/thepurplewombat
Summary: So, addignisherlock posted this on Tumblr:ok but what if when sherlock decided to point the gun at himself in tfp, he didn’t give a countdown“a while ago a brave man asked to be remembered.”next thing john and mycroft knew, there was a loud bang and sherlock’s blood splattered on their facesAnd then this happened.





	1. Click

**Author's Note:**

  * For [angstlover](https://archiveofourown.org/users/angstlover/gifts).



 There is blood on John’s face and a ringing in his ears, but the sullen thump of Sherlock’s body as he falls is louder than all of that. Mycroft is falling to his knees like a puppet with cut strings, his face blank under the dusting of blood and brain matter, and Euros is screaming screaming screaming over the screen, but John does not see any of that.

What he sees is the gun still in Sherlock’s limp hand, and before he knows it he is on his knees, gun in hand. The barrel is still hot and draws a circle of bright pain on the underside of John’s chin, and wet with Sherlock’s blood, and the grip is warm from Sherlock’s hand.

John had thought that the worst sound he would ever hear was the distand thud as Sherlock hit the ground in front of Barts. Then he had thought that it was the broken noise Sherlock made as John kicked him again and again - and why did John never apologise for that he should have apologised he really should have. Just now, he thought maybe the worst sound he would ever hear is the gunshot and the sound of Sherlock’s body hitting the floor.

He’d been wrong all those times.

The worst sound John Watson will ever hear is the hopeless click-click-click as he pulls the trigger of an empty gun again and again and again.

 


	2. Snap

Dimly, distantly, Mycroft is aware that his knees have gone out from under him, and that Euros is screaming. It hardly seems to matter now, does it? With Sherlock dead on the floor, everything seems so far away.

He’s always done his best to protect Sherlock. From the world, from the drugs. From himself. He’s failed more often than he has succeeded, but at least, he’d always told himself, at least Sherlock was still alive. Alive to snipe and snark at him, alive at times to hate him.

Mycroft had never been so happy as when John Watson entered Sherlock’s life. It had been as though the Sherlock of their shared (forgotten, at least by Sherlock) childhood had begun to shine through the facade. Not often, but sometimes, Mycroft could see the great-hearted boy Sherlock could have been, and he thought that, if all he had managed to do in his life was keep Sherlock alive long enough to meet John Watson, he could have died content.

John is still pulling the trigger on the useless gun, his eyes closed and tears making the blood on his face run.

Compassion isn’t really Mycroft’s area. Mercy, he’s often believed, is useless. But John Watson saved Sherlock’s life on the first day they met, and obligation is something that Mycroft Holmes understands. The bonds of debt and obligation and _what is owed_  are the sea he swims in, and right now, he knows what is owed.

His legs don’t quite want to support him, but he crawls over to John and wraps his arms around him from behind. He puts one hand around the gun and the other against John’s heart, and rests his forehead between John’s shoulderblades. Human contact is not Mycroft’s area either, but for a second he allows himself to draw strength from it, enough to do what must be done.

Just for a moment, just for long enough to be _sure._

Mycroft’s hands do not shake as he rises to his knees. They do not shake as he takes John’s chin in one hand and the back of his head in the other.

He can feel the shuddering breath John releases against his thumb.

“Please,” John breathes, and there is such _pleading_ in that voice, such desperation. Myrcoft has heard torture victims on the verge of breaking beg for death with less passion than John Watson puts into a whisper, on his knees next to the corpse of Mycroft’s baby brother.

“Tell Sherlock I love him, will you?” Mycroft asks, and then he moves, swift and sure and powerful.

_snap_.

 


End file.
